


Bullet wounds & bandages

by songsformonkeys



Category: The Equalizer (Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2020-11-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:54:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27630338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songsformonkeys/pseuds/songsformonkeys
Summary: Dave shows up outside your door one evening, hurt and bleeding. You help patch him up.
Relationships: Dave York/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 27





	Bullet wounds & bandages

It's just after eleven on a Sunday night when there's a knock on your door. You're already in your pajamas, curled up in front of the TV with a mug of tea and you eye the door suspiciously, wondering who would be coming for a visit at this hour.

Setting the mug down on the coffee table, you pad over to the door on bare feet. The floor feels cold in comparison to where they had just been wrapped up in a soft blanket.

When you look through the peep-hole in the door, your first instinct is to scream. Outside of your door, in the half-dark of the corridor, stands a man whose face is mostly covered in blood. Your heart feels like it's stopped mid-beat and your mind flashes back to The Shining, that you had stupidly watched on TV last night. Was this man gonna break in? _And where was your phone?!_

You're pulled from your thoughts when the man outside speaks. He says your name, closely followed by ”Please” and you know that voice. He shifts and as the light from the overhead lightbulb hits his face in a different way, you recognize his face too. It's Molly's dad. You've been Molly's tutor for a little over a year now and while you've talked to her dad quite a lot and have even been asked to stay for dinner a few times, there's nothing in your relationship that warrants showing up at the other's doorstep, looking like you'd been run over by a car. Yet here he is.

It takes you a moment to get your body working to pull the door open.

”Mr. York!” you exclaim as he almost topples over the threshold. You catch him and as your hand lands on his upper arm, it's wet with something warm and sticky. You don't need to be a genius to figure out what. The coppery smell in the air is strong enough that you can almost taste it.

You kick the door shut and lock it before hurriedly guiding Dave into the kitchen. He drags his feet and looks like he's one nudge away from falling over. You manage to get him seated on one of your kitchen chairs and in the brighter light of your kitchen, you can more clearly assess the damage. Dave has a split eyebrow, which seems to be the cause of the red mask on his face, and blood is dripping down his left arm and onto your floor. His shirt is horizontally split open and there's a long, slightly curved wound across his chest, like a fleshy grin.

”Mr. York, stay here! I'm gonna call an ambulance!” you tell him but before you have a chance to move, his right hand captures yours, pulling your attention back to his face.

”No ambulance,” he croaks and you give him a disbelieving look. Is he currently aware of the horrific picture he's currently making? ”I just need you.”

For the briefest of moments, your body has a wildly inappropriate reaction to those words and something flutters to life low in your gut, but then you have to laugh.

”Dave,” you say, switching to the more informal way of addressing him in hopes of establishing some sort of authority here. ”You're hurt. You need medical attention.”

”And you're a nurse,” Dave reasons.

”I'm a nursing _student_!” you protest, the pitch of your voice rising just a little.

”You graduate in three months. You'll do fine. Just follow my instructions and I'll tell you what to do. I promise I'm not dying. I just need you to be my hands.”

”I...” You glance back towards the living room, where you're pretty sure your phone is somewhere on the couch. Dave sees you looking.

” _No ambulance_ ,” he grounds out and there's a clear tone of annoyance in his voice now. It leaves no room for further argument and there's something about the way he says the words that makes you think he would physically stop you if you attempted to get to the phone now. You sigh and Dave's shoulders relax as he recognizes your defeat.

”I have a medkit in my jacket,” he tells you and jerks his head towards his left side pocket. You fish it out and inspect its contents. It's quite an impressive kit and you wonder what a man like Dave needs a kit like this for? You thought he had an office job - something with the police but an office job nonetheless. Or maybe it was just the tailored suits he always wore that had tricked you.

Dave guides you through what needs to be done. You help him out of his jacket but are forced to cut him out of his t-shirt. It's already torn and he assures you that it's no greater loss. His torso is smeared red with blood and you grab a clean kitchen towel, wetting it under the kitchen tap, before carefully cleaning away the worst of the blood to be able to better assess the damage. The slash across his chest isn't very deep and you think you'll be able to get away with taping it shut. The arm worries you more. There's a small, circular wound that's still bleeding sluggishly. Your eyes widen with realization and you look up at Dave's face.

”You have been shot,” you tell him. It's not a question. Dave nods and places his big hand over yours, where it's resting on his left forearm. It's only then that you realize that your own hand is shaking.

”I have. But don't worry about that now.” _Don't worry about that now?!_ You have half a mind to slap some sense into him with the bloody towel. Gunshots were definitely something to worry about, in your professional opinion.

”What happened?” you can't help but ask, because curiosity gets the better of you and you can't imagine a scenario where Dave York would get shot.

”Work stuff,” he tells you, ”I'm sorry, Sweetheart, but I can't go into more details than that, right now.”

The affectionate nickname is just enough to distract you from further inquiries and Dave takes that opportunity to continue.

”I'm gonna need you to fish the bullet out and sew the wound shut. There's a pair of surgical pliers in the kit as well as needle and thread.” He speaks way more calmly than anyone with a bullet inside them has any right to. Like you're the patient that needs soothing here. It feels a little embarrassing and so you steel yourself and try to distract yourself from the circumstances of this medical exercise and just focus on getting the bullet out. It works.

Dave sits patiently through your ministrations but the strained breathing gives away that he's not as unaffected as he looks. You apologize for the pain, even though it's not your fault. There's nothing you have at home that could lessen it right now. Not unless he drinks himself unconscious and if he did, that might come with additional problematic side effects.

”Are the girls at home?” you ask, trying to distract him, as you sew the bullet wound shut, ”Because if they are, we need to call someone. Even if you don't want anyone else involved, you have to do that. I'll sew you to the chair if I have to! But you can't leave them alone, Dave.”

Dave looks up, something curious in his eyes. Then he shakes his head.

”They're at Carol's place this week.”

”Good.” You place the last stitch on his arm and move to tape the wounds on his chest and eyebrow shut. Dave closes his eyes as you gently wipe a clean corner of the towel over his face, cleaning the blood from the crow's feet around his eyes, the beautiful curve of his nose, his smooth cheek and the corner of his lips. He opens his eyes when your thumb lingers just a little too long on his soft bottom lip – the fabric of the towel, the only thing preventing a kiss. You pull away and turn to rinse the towel off in the sink before he can see more in your gaze than you would like. Have you had a crush on Dave for the better part of the year that you had been working there? Yes, but that is beside the point and more importantly, hardly the reason Dave has come over tonight.

”You can use the bathroom to clean off the rest of the blood, if you like. I'm gonna clean up here.”

You don't turn but you hear Dave get up from the chair with a pained groan before slowly shuffling off towards the bathroom.

You clean up the kitchen and hallway as best you can but the smell of blood still lingers and you know you'll have to go over it again and do it even more properly tomorrow. But right now, you're a little too jittery for mopping the floors.

Looking down, you realize that you've got some of Dave's blood on your pajamas and also that you've stepped in it and are leaving footprints where you walk. You clean off your feet and quickly disappear into your bedroom to change into a clean pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before Dave is done in the bathroom.

When he emerges from the bathroom, still half-dressed and shirtless but a lot cleaner than before, the two of you stand awkwardly on opposite sides of the living room for a few seconds before Dave breaks the silence.

”Do you think...maybe I could stay for the night?”

”Oh thank heavens! I was worried I was gonna have to argue with you about that too,” you say with a relieved sigh. That makes Dave smile faintly.

”Thank you.”

Dave does argue a bit, however, when you tell him to sleep in the bed while you take the couch. But you make a convincing case explaining to him how the wound on his chest is going to have a much harder time to seal up properly if he sleeps cramped up on the couch, and Dave eventually gives in. He wishes you a good night, casual in a way that you might be with someone you'd just had a drink with, not someone who'd just been inside your arm with pliers, fishing out a bullet. Then he disappears into the bedroom.

You go to your hallway closet to fetch an extra set of bed sheets. You're not sure if Dave minds sleeping in your sheets but you at least want to be a good host and offer an alternative.

When you get back to your bedroom, you hear Dave cursing under his breath and find him struggling to open the buttons of his pants with one hand. The other hand hangs limp and bandaged at his side.

”Oh, you need help?” The words are out before you have fully processed just what it is you're offering and Dave replies before you have time to take the offer back.

”Please,” he says and hangs his head in defeat. Too late to take anything back now.

You set the sheets down on the edge of the bed before walking over to him, feeling your chest restricting your breathing as you get closer.

You stand in front of him and Dave meets your gaze before you look down.

”Buttons,” you say stupidly, ”Trickier.”

Dave huffs out a laugh and you feel the soft gush of air against your face. His breath smells faintly of mint, like he's been chewing gum earlier. Before you can completely chicken out, you reach for the hem of his pants, picking at the fabric to help him unbutton his pants. You go slow, trying to touch as little as possible of him, but the fabric of his jeans is stiff, making it more difficult to get the buttons free. You can see why he couldn't manage on his own. On the second button, your fingers slip and your knuckles accidentally brush over the bulge of Dave's cock. He jumps slightly and his breath stutters. You apologize instinctively, as if you've hurt him. Dave doesn't respond and as you quickly move onto the next button, you no longer feel the huffs of warm air on your face so you're not sure Dave's even breathing anymore.

When the last of the button has been popped free, you take a step back. Dave's working hand twitches as if he's about to reach for you but then stops himself.

”There. You think you can manage the rest on your own?” There's a pleading note to your voice. If Dave asks for any further help undressing, you don't think you'll be able to survive with your dignity intact. Dave hears the plea too and he nods.

”Yes. Thank you. Again.”

You smile and give him an awkward little wave before fleeing out of the bedroom.

As you stretch out on the couch a few minutes later, you try very hard not to think about Dave's reaction to the brush of knuckles and the fact that he's currently almost naked in your bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, you wake up before Dave does. Your couch is comfortable enough but it's not ideal for lie-ins. So you get up and start the coffee-maker. Then you wait for Dave to emerge from the den. But he doesn't.

In his defense, you hadn't told him to set an alarm but, for you, the daylight had also come with the realization that you have a lecture today that you can't miss. A lecture that would start in about an hour. If you wanted to make it on time, you would have to leave soon.

You walk over to the bedroom and knock softly on the doorframe. There's no response and suddenly you worry that Dave might have gotten worse during the night. Maybe there had been an injury that you had missed?

Carefully, you push the door open and look inside. Dave is stretched out on his back on your bed, his injured left arm laying along his side while the right one is resting on the pillow above his head. You follow the line of his right arm, along his bicep and the dark patch of hair in his armpit, down to his chest. Most of it is covered by the sheets and you can only just see the white bandage peeking out. There's a foot sticking out at the bottom of the blankets and you don't know why the sight looks so endearing to you.

Dave looks relaxed but he doesn't stir as you move into the room and you want to make sure he's really okay and that he hasn't bled through his bandages.

The one on his arm looks okay when you lean in to inspect it. The one on his chest, you can't properly see, so you reach out to lift the blanket just a fraction, without disturbing him. However, when you do, Dave's right hand shoots out like a cobra and grips your hand like a vice. It hurts and you gasp out an ”I'm sorry!”

Dave immediately loosens his grip when he realizes it's you, but he doesn't quite let go.

”Is everything okay?” he asks, voice a little rough with sleep.

”Yes. I'm sorry. I was just gonna check you hadn't bled through. I didn't want to wake you,” you explain. Dave only nods and pulls the blanket down for you to check.

”Help yourself,” he says with a soft smile and you wonder, _is he even hearing himself?!_

The wound on the chest seems to be in okay order as well. You tell Dave as much and also inform him about your lecture. You tell him that he can stay until you get back, if he still doesn't want to go to the doctor. Dave accepts the offer of staying and you're part annoyed and part hopeful by that response.

When you move to back away, he captures your hand again, and holds it flat against his diaphragm. You can feel him breathing under your palm and your fingers twitch with the urge to touch more of him.

”Thank you,” he says solemnly, holding your gaze with his.

”You're welcome,” you say, forcing yourself to pull your hand free from his loose hold. ”I'll see you when I get back.”

”I'll be here.” It feels both like a promise and a threat.


End file.
